


The Devil's In The House Of The Rising Sun

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Child Neglect, Children in Distress, Demon Blood, Fever, Gen, Horror, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, POV Dean Winchester, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Seizures, Sick Sam Winchester, Teen Dean Winchester, Withdrawal, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-09 17:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10416948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: Something is wrong with Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I procrastinated my Big Bang by writing this oops
> 
> Title comes from the song The Devil Went Down To Georgia.

The cold cloth warms against the heat of Sam's skin, the water in the bowl has seeped to lukewarm. He pants, sweat-drenched and shivering, his pyjamas clinging to his skin in wet clumps. He curls onto his side again, folding himself in half, arms wrapped around his middle. Dean is quick to clamp his hand over Sam's mouth right before the boy screams, his pained cries are muffled beneath his palm.

"You need to be quiet," Dean hisses. "If someone hears, they'll try to come in here."

Sam, too consumed by the pain, doesn't hear Dean, or he chooses to ignore him, and continues to shriek into his hand. After a few minutes, Sam tires himself out and his body loosens, the taut muscle on his neck and shoulders relaxes. He lies heavy and limp on the bed, the covers kicked down to his feet, eyes drifting in and out of focus.

Dean quickly makes a dash to the bathroom, empties the bowl of water into the sink and re-fills it with what's melted at the bottom of the ice bucket. Sam hasn't moved an inch when Dean returns to the room, he's rasping his breaths in and out, his eyelids flickering. Dean pats him not-so-gently on the cheek, his hands shaking.

"You can't fall asleep, Sammy," he says in his best Dad voice, sharp and impossible to defy.

Sam coughs a little and blinks himself back into the room. His eyes wander around blindly for a moment before they find Dean. His lips wobble and a tear escapes, slipping down his cheek and onto the drenched mattress.

"It hurts," he whispers, his voice too raw to manage anything louder.

"Dad's coming back," Dean promises. He'd spoken to John four hours ago when Sam had collapsed while brushing his teeth, and he's been messaging him every half hour since. Their Dad is six states away, and it could be another day before he comes back. Dean's not sure if Sammy has that much time, and he told his dad as much. Right now they've got Jim and Bobby headed their way too.

"I want Mommy," Sam whimpers. Dean freezes in the middle of wringing out the cloth. Sam has never said that in his life, not even when he was really little, because he doesn't know what it's like to miss his mom.

"Well, she's not here. You've only got me," Dean snaps, which is his usual knee-jerk reaction to any mention of their mother. It's not fair to Sam, who looks pathetic and tiny and _scared._ His face crumples and he bursts into another round of sobs. Sam is ten years old now and has only cried once since he was six, when he figured out the terrible truth of the world all by himself. Dean feels immediately guilty.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get mad at you. I'm not mad, I promise," he says, pushing Sam's sweat-soaked hair from his eyes. Sam is still crying, but quietly now. He stares blankly over Dean's shoulder.

"She says she misses us," he whispers.

Dean can't help turning around, but of course there isn't anyone else in the room. He leans in close to Sam, can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and pulls his brother up into his arms. Sam is boneless, head flopping over Dean's elbow, as he's lifted. Dean carries him gently into the bathroom and settles him into the tub. Sam, who doesn't even seem to have noticed he's been moved, continues to stare at nothing in particular.

"The fever is messing with your head, Sammy," Dean says, trying to be calmer than he is. "There's no one here but me and you. Okay?"

Sam doesn't give him and answer, just stares at him slack-jawed and blinks tiredly. Dean can't help reaching down to feel his pulse, mostly to check if it's even there. He's seen death enough time now to know it comes when you least expect it, he could turn around for one second and Sam would be gone by the time he turned back again. He reaches up and unhooks the shower head, holding it low and pointed at the drain as he turns on the water and finds the right temperature. Sam yelps and thrashes a little when Dean begins to rinse it over him, but Dean holds him down and tries his best to ignore the sobs.

"Please!" Sam cries, voice rising higher and higher, and Dean knows the kid will belt out a scream any second. He clamps his hand over Sam's mouth and waits for him to finish. He's limper than the wet cloth on his brow when Dean undresses and re-dresses him, arms dangling and head rolling all the way back to the bed.

Dean spreads a clean sheet over the soaked mattress and lays Sammy on top of it, then he gets back to wringing out the cloth and dabbing his forehead. Sam continues to shudder and mumble. After another few rounds of the same - the pain in his stomach, the screaming, crying, sweating, feverish nonsense, the pain again - Sam finally falls asleep. Dean sits beside the bed with the shotgun on his lap, watching the door, waiting for the headlights of someone's truck to flash in the window and signal rescue.

Sam has a nightmare, and Dean climbs up onto the bed to hold him through it until he wakes up crying.

"It was just a dream," Dean says in darkness of the room. Every few seconds a light flits across the ceiling as cars drive by outside. Sam is quiet excepts for his raspy breaths, which cut off, guttural and sudden.

Dean feels desperately for the bedside light. The room blinks back into existence, the damp-stained ceilings and the torn wallpaper by the fridge, and Sammy pulled taut and shuddering beside Dean. Even more horrifying, his veins are sticking up visibly under his skin, turning almost black.

"Sam!" Dean yells, despite his own rules to be quiet, but any sense he had is suddenly gone. Sam trembles even more violently, his hands are fixed into claws and reaching up to nothing, his feet try to bury into the mattress, his back arches almost unnaturally. Dean can't help it, he stumbles back and watches it all happen. He watches Sam shudder and shake, the whites of his eyes staring out from under his flickering eyelids. He twists and locks, back arched, chest lifting higher until... until he's not on the bed anymore. He's hanging just above it, still jerking.

Dean snaps out of it and grabs Sam by the ankle, yanking him back down. Sam's body begins to relax, but it's another minute before he's still again, dragging in painful breaths. His skin is greyish, he almost looks dead. Dean grabs a flask of holy water from the bedside drawer and trickles some into Sam's mouth. Sam reflexively swallows, but there's no smoke or sizzling.

He'd been sick for a couple of weeks, but Dad had said it was only the flu, that Sam was dizzy and tired and nauseous because of some regular bug. This is anything but normal, Dean knows that now, and he's scared of what his dad might do when he gets back and sees for himself.

Sam rolls his head towards Dean, eyes still closed, and he reaches out with one hand until it finds Dean's shirt. Dean is frozen still, he can do nothing but stare, waiting for something else horrific to happen.

"Dean," Sam mumbles, just a scared little kid and nothing else. "Dean, I'm thirsty."

Dean blinks and nods, even though Sam can't see with his eyes still closed. He pats Sam's hand and lays it back on the bed before heading to the kitchenette. He stops when there's a knock at the door. Dad would use a key, and Bobby or Jim would use their special knock. It could be motel manager coming to kick them out because of noise complaints, but if he sees them on their own, and how sick Sam is, he'll call the CPS.

Dean tiptoes over and peers through the peephole. The man on the other side is not the motel manager. He's dressed in a suit and smiling like he can see Dean staring at him. The chain slides out of the lock and drops with a soft clang, then the handle begins to turn. Dean dashes back for the shotgun, but the door opens first and he's jerked off his feet, sliding into the wall opposite with a thud. The man steps over the salt line and into the room, still grinning like a Cheshire cat.

His eyes immediately fall on Sammy, who's eyes are still closed as if he didn't notice any of the commotion.

"Get away from him!" Dean yells as the man - thing - takes a step towards the bed. He pauses and looks at Dean, amused.

"Sammy isn't very well, Dean-o," he says. "I'm here to make him better."

He perches himself on the edge of the bed and places the palm of his hand on Sam's cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb across his skin.

"Sammy!" Dean cries. "Please don't touch him!"

He tries to get up and make a dash for Sam, but he can't move. It's like there's something heavy weighing him down and keeping him pressed to the wall. He can't do anything but watch as the man gently pulls Sam onto his knee and hold him there like he belongs to him. Sam stirs, eyes opening a little and focusing on the man.

"Dad?" he asks.

"That's not Dad, Sammy!" Dean shouts. The man throws a glare at him, and suddenly Dean can't make another sound, his mouth opens and closes uselessly.

The man pulls a knife from the inside of his jacket, Dean's heart pounds frantically in his chest as he squirms even harder, but he can't move, he can only watch. Surprisingly, the man turns the knife on himself, makes a neat cut along his wrist. As soon as the first drop of blood spills over the edge of the wound, Sam rouses even more, keening like it hurts.

Dean watches, horrified, as the man presses the wound to Sam's lips. He just about stops breathing when Sam curls his fingers around the man's arm and sucks like he used to when he was a baby and their mother tucked him under her blouse.

"There's a good boy," the man says softly. "Drink up."

Sammy doesn't even know what he's doing, he's sick and confused, and Dean can't do anything to save him. It goes on for a few minutes, those terrible, wet, sloppy sucking noises, the man grinning all the while. It's the man who brings it to an end, pulling his arm away, ignoring Sam's pathetic whines for more. He places him back onto the bed and Sam curls up and falls asleep again, with more colour in his cheeks than he's had in weeks. The man gets to his feet and tugs his sleeve back down. He pauses as he passes Dean.

"Don't worry, son," he says. "I'll be back again when he needs me. Look after him for me, would you?" He chuckles on his way out the door and says, "See you boys again in a few years."

The door swings closed and the locks click back into place, the weight on Dean vanishes and he slumps to the ground. The room is quiet like it was before.

"Sam?" he calls, testing his voice. Sam blinks awake and stares at him sleepily, eyes widening when he sees the fear in Dean's expression.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Dean steps forward and picks the shot gun back up again. He settles back down beside Sam and brushes a few drops of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Nothing, Sammy," he says dully, too wired with shock to really do anything but be still and quiet, like he might somehow bring the man back if he speaks to loudly. "Go back to sleep."

Jim arrives first, sighing when he sees that Sam isn't sick at all, not anymore. "You only call when it's an emergency, Dean," he says, and goes to tell Bobby and John that everything is fine. Still, he spends the night and makes their breakfast in the morning. Sam sits across from Dean, eating lucky charms and giggling at the Saturday morning cartoons as if nothing at all happened the night before, like he's forgotten he was sick in the first place. Dean wonders if he dreamt it, if it was the just a horrible nightmare, but the sweat-stained bed sheets and the shudder along Dean's spine each time Sam's eyes catch gold in sunlight say otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later, Sam gets sick again. Dean takes matters into his own hands.

The weather in Texas is indecisive. Yesterday, Dean started his shift at the gas station sweating through his t shirt, five hours later he walked home in a flood of rain, shaking himself off at the motel like a dog. Sam doesn't go out much, aside from school, mostly keeping to himself in the room, doing homework and reading for fun or whatever he does to get his nerdy kicks.

Every night, Sam asks when Dad is coming back.

"I don't know," is always Dean's answer. He gets a message from Dad every day saying something along the lines of _hunt's taking longer than expected. be back soon._

John never specifies when _soon_ will be. It could be tomorrow, it could be two weeks from now. For once, Dean is happy their dad didn't bring him along for this one. Sam's been sick the past couple of weeks; sleeping a lot, headaches, no appetite. Dad says it must be the flu. Dean thinks back five years. He knows better.

He'd been wondering - hoping - for a long time that the whole thing had been a nightmare, just something he made up in his mind, but the later Sam sleeps in and the less he eats, the more Dean is sure it was real. And even worse, it's happening again. He comes back from work, shivering and dripping wet, to find Sam fast asleep on top of the covers of one of the beds. Dean can see the kid sweating and panting in his sleep all the way from the door. He barely has to touch Sam's forehead to know he's burning up.

It's only a matter of time before the man - whatever the fuck he is - comes back. Dean can't watch that again. He won't let it happen. But Sam is pale and shivering and he looks so _sick._ Dean can't just leave Sam like this. He nudges Sam's shoulder until he blinks awake.

"Wha'?" Sam mumbles, eyes still focusing. He rubs the grit from his eyes and looks up at Dean, licking his dry lips. "What time s'it?"

"It's 8pm," Dean says quietly. The room is getting darker as the sun dips down over the horizon outside. Dean strains his eyes and fumbles for the bedside lamp. As soon as the light flashes and fills the room, Sam just about hisses and rolls over, ducking under the covers. Dean reaches over and tugs him back to face him, and says, "You feeling okay?" despite already knowing the answer.

"Feel like I got run over by a steamroller," Sam croaks. His eyes are shut against the lamp light, his arm flung over his face. "We got any Tylenol? M'head's killin' me."

Dean is quiet a moment. "I think we've got some," he says, getting to his feet. He pauses. "You thirsty?" he asks.

"Uh, yeah."

"What do you want?"

Sam frowns under his arm. "Water? What else've we got?"

Dean doesn't think he'd expected Sam to answer with _yeah Dean, I'd really like some blood_ , but it was worth asking. He finds some Tylenol at the bottom of the first aid kit and he takes a couple over to Sam with a glass of water. He places them carefully into Sam's trembling hands and watches him delicately swallow them down. He opens the bedside drawer and finds one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sweat pants, and he hands them to Sam.

"I think you should get some sleep."

Sam sits up and smiles a little. "Thanks," he mumbles, climbing out of bed like the movement stirs an ache in his bones. He pauses in the door of the bathroom and turns around. "Dean, you okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Sam shrugs. "Dunno. You seem worried or something."

Dean sighs, stays perched on the edge of Sam's bed. "I'm fine."

Sam looks at him a moment longer, either waiting for Dean to say something else, or trying to figure out what's wrong just by analysing him. Finally, he heads into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Dean sits there in the dim lamp light. He gets up to check and re-check the salt line, but it's pointless since whatever's coming for Sam can walk in unharmed. He loads the shotgun, arranges his set of silver knives on the coffee table, he blesses some water and digs a flare gun from the bottom of the weapons bag. Whatever it is, it's not getting past Dean. No way.

Sam comes back into the room dressed for bed. It's only when he's climbing under the covers that he notices all the weapons laid out in the room. "What's going on?" he asks, brow furrowed in alarm.

"Just cleaning stuff," Dean lies.

Sam relaxes a little and settles himself under the starchy motel blanket, burrowing his face into the pillow until he finds a comfortable position. A few minutes later he's fast asleep. The remnants of the rain are sliding down the window, the damp concrete outside shines under the streetlamp like slick oil. Dean opens the door as far as the chain will allow, the air is thick but chilled, the sky is still unsure if it wants to spit on him or not. He's about to shut the door when he notices someone at the other end of the motel. It's a maid, and she's watching him.

Dean tucks his gun in at his back and heads outside, locking the door behind him. The maid keeps staring. He marches up to her, hand reaching for the flask of holy water inside his jacket, but she holds up her hand and smiles, eyes black.

"No need, kid," she says. She leans against the cleaning cart and places one hand on her hip. "How's your little brother?"

Dean's jaw clenches. "You stay the fuck away from him."

She holds up both her hands, looking like she's trying to keep a straight face. "Woah. I'm not going anywhere near him. My orders are to keep an eye out and let the boss know when he's needed."

Dean's stomach feels hollow. "What did you do to Sam?"

She laughs. "Me? I didn't do anything to the kid. Besides, that ship sailed long ago. Why do you think mommy died over Sammy's crib?"

Dean steps back and pulls his gun from his belt, aiming for her head. "You - "

"Again, " she cuts him off, "I didn't do anything. Not to your brother, not to your mommy. Someone's had a claim over your kid brother for a long time. Hell, the boy's barely even human, but you already knew that."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Or what? You'll shoot. Go ahead. I'll just smoke outta here and you'll be standing over the corpse of this poor maid with blood on your hands. Is that what you want?"

Dean doesn't lower the gun. "What do you want?" he asks.

"To help," the demon replies, fiddling with the lace on her collar. "I'm charitable like that. You see, Sammy needs something and he needs it soon or else he's dead meat. Either I tell my boss to come make him better... or you can do it yourself. What's it gonna be?"

"I'm not giving him _blood_ ," Dean growls.

The demon smiles. "I'll just make the call, then. My boss'll be here in no time."

She turns away but Dean quickly stops her. His heart is hammering away in his chest, his palms are slippy with sweat. "Wait!"

She twirls back around, flashing a grin. "Oh, I knew you'd make the right choice. First, I need you to fetch me a bottle."

Dean stands and stares. She raises an impatient eyebrow. He fumbles in his jacket and hands over the flask of holy water. The demon opens it and sniffs, nose crinkling.

"Disgusting," she says, tipping the contents onto the floor as far from her body as she can. Without another word she pulls a small, sharp knife from the back of her apron and tucks the flask under her arm. "I hope you're not squeamish, kid," she says, chuckling like it's a joke, then she makes a neat, deep cut at her wrist. The blood spills over, dripping heavy and fast from the wound, and she quickly holds it against the lid of the flask, letting the blood fill it. "Come here often?" she asks Dean, bursting into a fit of laughter.

Dean has gone icy cold all over, his heart is pounding as he watches her bleed. Finally, she puts the lid back on the flask and hands it back, her bloody fingers leaving prints on the shining surface.

"I'll stick around, make sure you do what needs to be done," she says. "Or else I'm calling my boss."

Dean is shaking as he steps away, his eyes still on her. "You boss," he says, "did he kill my mother?"

She grins and taps her nose. When he blinks, she's gone, the cart left abandoned by a mess of blood and holy water. Dean sprints back to the room and locks the door as securely as he can, fixing the salt line and flicking on the light. Sam doesn't wake up to the racket Dean is making, half out of breath with panic, tripping on the carpet. He does wake up after Dean shakes him for a solid minute. He blinks blearily at Dean, then sits up straight and wide eyed.

"What's wrong?" he asks, eyes tracing over him. "Is that _blood?_ Are you hurt?"

Dean holds up the flask and shoves it into Sam's hands. "Drink this. Now."

Sam's frowns as he opens it, peering inside and sniffing the contents. His face twists in disgust. "There's blood in here! Ugh, Dean. This isn't funny."

"I'm not kidding," Dean says firmly, out of breath with panic. He glances to the door, only a fraction relieved to find it still locked. "You need to drink this or else a demon is going to come for you and make you drink his blood. Don't you get it? I'm trying to keep you safe."

Sam stares at him for a long moment, eyes squinting like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. Eventually, his face falls. "You're serious," he says, swallowing thickly.

"Yes!" Dean snaps, impatient.

Sam is slow as he puts the flask down and inches back, blindly trying to find his footing as he gets to his feet, keeping his eyes on Dean. "Okay," he says, voice soft and shaking. "Okay, Dean. We'll, uh - it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna call Dad, alright?"

Dean lunges and grabs Sam's arm before he can reach the phone. Sam yelps as he's pulled back and shoved onto the bed. Dean stands over him, Sam's wrist still in his grasp.

"You can't tell Dad," he says, squeezing Sam a little tighter.

"You're hurting me," Sam whimpers, trying to twist out of his grip.

"I'm trying to help you. You're sick and this is the only way to fix you. I don't want to - I wish this weren't the only way, but this is the _best_ way. I've been watching you for the past five years, watching the door to make sure no one was coming in. I thought maybe the thing that came last time was a demon, but it didn't make sense that it could cross the salt line. But then I read in one of Bobby's books that greater demons are immune to salt and holy water. It all makes sense, Sammy. The thing that killed Mom killed her in _your_ nursery. What if it wasn't after her in the first place? What if she was trying to protect you from something? What if it did something _to_ you?"

Sam's eyes are shining with tears in the lamp light, his cheeks are streaked and wet. "Stop it," he sobs. "Stop saying this! Dean, please stop! You aren't making any sense!"

"Do you remember when you were sick five years ago? God, Sammy, you were so sick. You were going to die, I just know you were. But then that thing came and gave you its blood and you drank it like you _needed_ it. You need to drink what's in the flask, okay? It's the only way to keep that thing away from you."

Sam is sickly hot where Dean's touching him, his cheeks are damp and bright with fever spots, his breathing is uneven. "Dean, please. We need to call Dad. You're not well..."

" _No_. I'm trying to help you."

Sam keeps trying to get out of Dean's grip, but he's loose-limbed and weak, even just sitting up seems like a chore. Dean lets go and Sam scrambles to his unsteady feet.

"I'm calling Dad," he says, breathless. "It's gonna be okay, Dean..."

He stumbles in the wrong direction, away from the phone, then stops and stares at his trembling hands. Dean manages to catch him before he falls, saving his head from clipping the corner of the coffee table. Sam is boneless, head lolling back, eyes rolling up. Dean picks him up and puts him back on the bed. He puts the flask in the fridge and sits in the closest chair, a shotgun on his lap, eyes on the door.

He sits there for hours, watching the doors and windows, checking for the thousandth time if he really did load the gun, checking for millionth time if Sam is still breathing. He seems to be sleeping now, curled up on his side, tangled up in the bed sheets and sweating through his clothes. Dean presses a cold flannel to his brow, trying to think of a way to convince Sam to drink.

Either Sam drinks or he dies. Dean knows which he'd rather.

It's 6am and Sam finally stirs. He rolls onto his back, eyes still closed, and opens his mouth, his dry lips cracking. "Thirsty," he mumbles. Dean grabs the glass of water he left beside the bed and and holds it to Sam's mouth. Sam sputters and turns his head away. Then, he's rolling clumsily out of bed and staggering towards the kitchenette, his knee knocking painfully against the coffee table. He doesn't seem to notice.

Dean watches Sam open the fridge and sink to his knees, uncoordinated fingers pulling out the flask and fumbling with the top. The room is dark except for the light from the fridge. It illuminates Sam's face, his slight jaw and high cheekbones, too long and slim at fifteen. Dad thinks Sammy will be taller than both of them.

Finally Sam pulls the lid off and tips his head back, pouring the contents of the flask down his throat like he can't do it fast enough. He glugs and gasps like he's never had anything better. He's eyes are beginning to clear as he pats the flask against the palm of his hand to get the last of it out.

He licks his hands clean and slumps against one of the cabinets, blinking himself back into the room. There's trail of blood coming from the corner of his mouth and he wipes it with the back of his wrist, then he just sits there and stares.

"Sammy?" Dean says softly.

Sam looks up quickly, brows pinched together, eyes watering. "What - what did I do?"

"It's okay, Sam. It's done now. I'll figure out how to make sure it doesn't happen again."

Sam shakes his head roughly. "No. This is _wrong_ ," he spits, scrambling away from the empty flask. "What did you do?"

"I kept you safe."

"I don't understand."

"Me neither," Dean admits. It's awful, but it's better than Sam being dead.

"Why did I do that? God. I'm disgusting," Sam says, and bites his lip around a sob. Dean gets down on the grey-tinted linoleum floor and sits up against the cabinet beside Sam.

"Something happened to you," Dean says, as much to himself as to Sam. "You need this," he gestures to the flask, "or else you could die. I don't know why."

"How do you know?" Sam sniffs.

"It happened before. Five years ago. And maybe it's happened other times. You don't remember?"

Sam shakes his head, mouth open and silent, eyes staring forward.

"Maybe you were too sick to remember those times," Dean says.

Sam buries his face in his hands. "I don't want to be like this. I'm not even human, am I? I'm a - a vampire."

"Vampires aren't real, bud," Dean says softly, rubbing Sam's back. Sam hesitantly leans into him. Dean says, "You'll be okay. I'll fix this. You trust me, right?"

Sam releases a shaky breath and nods. "I thought you'd gone crazy," he says, soft and wet, into Dean's chest. "I was so scared that something was wrong with you. Then I woke up and I was so thirsty and I could _smell_ it in the fridge. I couldn't stop myself."

"I'll fix this," Dean promises.

"Dad's gonna hate me. He'll - " Sam sobs, "he'll want me dead. I'm a monster."

Dean rubs a hand through Sam's sweaty hair. "You're not a monster. And Dad's never gonna find out about this. Never."


End file.
